


It Could Be a Side Effect of the Groping, But I'm Thinking It's Probably Love

by theswearingkind



Category: bare: A Pop Opera - Hartmere/Intrabartolo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-07
Updated: 2007-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking up is hard to do.  Especially when only one of your heads wants to. </p>
            </blockquote>





	It Could Be a Side Effect of the Groping, But I'm Thinking It's Probably Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Big Damn Table prompt #21, friends.

“Peter, this is.  I mean, it’s not.  This is.  Peter.  Um.” 

This is one of those things Jason figures he needs to say, but his tongue and his brain aren’t really working together today.  His brain is telling him he needs to finish this, now, end it before it gets too messy, because, really, what have they got so far?  A couple of enthusiastic gropes in their room, a few semi-short but really fucking hot make-out sessions, and one hastily aborted attempt at a blowjob (dear God, Jason had been able to fucking feel Peter’s _breath_ on his _dick_ , and he’s _still_ pissed at Lucas for choosing that night of all goddamn nights to finally make good on his long-standing threat to set off the fire alarm).  Which, yeah, at this point?  Nothing he can’t recover from.

His tongue disagrees.  His tongue disagrees _emphatically_ , disagrees with, like, four exclamation points and 18-point italicized font.  His tongue has flow charts and Venn diagrams and signed petitions from his dick and his hands and oh yeah did he mention his dick, and all of them point to his brain being kind of a jackass. 

Of course, his tongue is kind of _occupied_ at the moment, sort of _otherwise_ _engaged_ , so it really shouldn’t get any say in the matter.  But there are, like, extenuating circumstances and all that, and since at the moment his tongue would have the most to lose from ending this…whatever, Jason’s inclined to grant a reprieve, or a stay of execution, or at least postpone the hearing until all parties are up to speed, and who says having a judge for a father doesn’t occasionally pay off, in bad semi-sexual metaphors if nothing else. 

“Yeah?” Peter says, kind of gaspy and kind of hoarse and kind of really fucking amazingly hot.

“What?” Jason says stupidly.

“It’s not what?”  And, really.  Peter can’t honestly expect Jason to be coherent when his hand is doing.  That. 

“I.  Uh.  What?  No, um, I don’t—uh.”  

And it’s not like Peter’s making it any easier, either, chewing on the end of his pen while he tries to conjugate verbs in French, or drumming his fingers across his desktop in history, or, goddamn it, stretching before gym.  Or, like, rubbing himself against Jason’s thigh and biting, fucking _biting_ , at his bottom lip until it’s red and swollen and pornographically pouty and kind of demands to be licked. 

You know.  For example.

“Mmm, yeah.  Jason, yeah,” Peter mumbles, his mouth kind of catching on Jason’s nose as he forms the words.  It happens, and it’s not the worst thing that can happen, but it’s not the smoothest move ever, either, and it’s actually a little bit gross, because saliva and nostrils go together like…like two things that just shouldn’t go together, ever.  And the thing is, Jason gets that, he thinks it’s gross, but it’s _Peter_ , and Jason also thinks it’s kind of cute.  Which, yeah.  Maybe his brain has a point. 

“We should—no, stop that, man.  I think we should, like, stop.” 

“Why?” Peter asks, licking along his jaw.  “Nobody’s around.”

Jason feels himself weakening.  Seriously, _licking his jaw_.  “No, that’s not—that’s not the issue, Peter.  And I don’t mean, like, stop now.  Well, yeah, I mean, obviously I mean we should stop _now_ , but—”

“You’re babbling,” Peter laughs, low and kind of sexy, and the vibrations of it coil into Jason’s gut.  “Have I mentioned how hot you are when you do that?” 

“I—really?”  Babbling is not hot, not in Jason’s book.  Funny, sometimes, embarrassing, hell yes, but hot?  No. 

Well.  Not when he’s the one doing it, anyway. 

Peter grins wide, and the stretch of it changes the planes of his face, makes him look older than he is.  “You’re always hot,” he says, and punctuates his words with a little roll of his hips, which, hello, yes please. 

“Uh,” Jason says, and seriously, he’s, like, number two in his class.  When did words become such a challenge? 

“Uh-huh,” Peter agrees, and kisses his way back into Jason’s mouth.  And that’s good, Jason’s got no problem with that.  Kissing is good.  Kissing is fucking awesome, it’s like the best thing ever, and why the fuck was he trying to stop doing this, again?

Peter shifts his hips to the right, suddenly, and his dick presses up against Jason’s through the fabric of their jeans, and it’s just—it’s just enough, just _right_ , and the part of Jason’s brain that isn’t busy shorting out and shooting off into orgasm-land thinks, oh, right, that’s why. 

Peter gets really, really quiet. 

This is kind of not at all how Jason imagined this moment.  He’d obviously been laboring under some kind of delusion, and this probably says really bad things about the size of his ego or whatever, but he’d really never thought that hewould be the one who had trouble with, like.  Stamina. 

Fuck.  

There are probably ten million things he could say right now to make this be—not alright, because alright pretty much stopped being an option when he _came in his pants_ , but a little less not-okay.  He could just, like, apologize for the next hundred years and jerk Peter off (and hey, it’s not like jerking Peter off would be a _punishment_ or anything) and eventually he’d be able to look at himself in the mirror and not, you know, want to die of shame. 

Instead, he just sort of hangs there, not moving, and gapes. 

Peter kind of looks at him for a second, and then looks kind of _not_ at him, but close, maybe just over his left shoulder or something.  “Um,” he says finally.  “Did.  Did you just—?”

“No!” Jason yelps, despite all evidence to the contrary. 

“No?” Peter asks.

“No,” Jason repeats firmly, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from years of _Law and Order_ re-runs, it’s that in times of crisis, when you’re about to judged by your peers, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. 

“Well then you pissed your pants, Jason, and that’s just gross.”  And, okay.  That’s fair.  Because, yeah, given the choice between coming in Peter’s lap pretty damn embarrassingly early in the game or having Peter think that he’d just _pissed on him_ , Jason will definitely opt for door number one, no questions asked.  At least the first one’s, like, a compliment, sort of.  The second one just makes him think about really bad, kinky fetish porn.

So.  In the grand scheme of things, it could have been worse. 

But still.  _Still._    

“I.  Maybe,” he amends. 

There’s a moment.  And then—

“It’s okay,” Peter says, and he’s kind of smiling a little bit, just the corners of his mouth twitching upward.  “I think it’s cute.”


End file.
